


Reap What You Sow

by whatswronglittlefellow



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Anglo-Saxon, Alternate Universe - Human, Anglo-Saxon, Gen, Includes Art, Mild Blood, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:00:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22256074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatswronglittlefellow/pseuds/whatswronglittlefellow
Summary: An AU of Steven Universe: the Movie that takes place in 9th-century Anglo-Saxon England.———Censwith (ie. Spinel) the scop learns that her thane, Friggmen (ie. Pink Diamond), had abandoned her for the village of Murgatroyd over twenty years ago. Enraged, Censwith journeys to Murgatroyd seeking vengeance.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 11





	1. Censwith Goes to Feltun

Winter was coming, and Censwith was running out of food.

She had no more animals to slaughter for meat. She had no more salt to cure her meat with. Her crops were ailing. She had cooked and eaten the tough flesh of her last ox in an act of starved desperation. She only had Friggmen’s horses left in the stables, but she couldn’t bring herself to kill such beloved animals. With no adequate beasts of burden left, her strips of land had been left fallow.

Censwith knew that she was not much of a farmer. She never had been. A bard since birth, plowing and herding had never been her specialty. Over the decades during which the farm was her ward, she had watched eagerly, then worriedly, then helplessly as the organisms that her thane loved so much withered away. Now she was, slowly, withering away.

Censwith pressed her hand against her stomach. It felt cold and hungry. She looked out over the decrepit plot. She couldn’t find the energy within her to pick up the plow today. With nothing else to do, she turned back and walked into her thane’s house.

It was dark inside. Censwith lit a dripping candle, illuminating a sorry portion of the empty, one-room wooden hut.

The tapestries hanging on the walls were dark due to mold growth and saturated with dust. The cloth was frayed at the edges and torn in places. Censwith cringed when she looked at the ripped fabric. She should have never let animals into the house.

The floor was wooden and rotting. Sometimes, Censwith imagined pulling the plants growing out of the planks and eating them. The thought usually made her smile, and she usually tucked it back into her mind, telling herself she’ll relay it to Friggmen, her thane and best friend, when she finally came home. Censwith was glad to imagine how her thane would laugh at such a silly thought. It made her chest ache hollow and her eyes burn. _Maybe that’s why she hasn’t come back yet_ , she would think, gazing irritably around the room. _This place is a dump._

It was such a large property, yet with no slaves to clean it. The sole groundskeeper was Censwith, who was happy to stay, for the most part. Truth be told, she was urgently eager for Friggmen’s promised return. Every night for over twenty years, her dreams were of Friggmen and her, and it was starting to get unbearable. Well, it had always been unbearable, since day one, but she tried her hardest to minimize her desire for companionship. 

Friggmen had never been gone for this long.

 _I have no salt,_ she suddenly remembered. The maiden sighed and put on her cloak. She blew out the candle, studied it for a moment, then decided to bring it with her, tucking it into the sack that was tied to her belt. She had more candles at home.

Censwith disliked going into the village, because it drew her away from Friggmen’s farm. What if Friggmen came back and Censwith wasn’t there? She’d think she had abandoned her. She’d think she was just a fickle entertainer. Thinking about this, Censwith grit her teeth and hurried to the small huddle of buildings that made up Feltun, nearly slipping down a slope of cracked mud in her way.

The town stunk of feces and body odor, as always. She fondly remembered how Friggmen would tell her stories of an ancient people, the Romanan, and how they actually worshipped manure. It made Friggmen giggle _way_ more than it should have. Censwith remembered how she would always try to repeat this story to her thane when she was sad, just to see her smile again. Sometimes, it worked. 

The deeper she got into Feltun, the more it smelled of produce and leather, and less of… bodies. So, there was that.

“Censwith!” she heard a friendly voice shout. It was a peasant, waving frantically at her. Censwith forced herself to smile and bounced over to the vendor’s stand.

“Hello! How ya doing?” Censwith wheezed and waved, keeping her smile spread across her face. 

“It’s Flodoald, right?” She asked, just for the sake of it. The peasant’s face lit up. “I never forgetta face!” She laughed.

“It’s good to see you again,” Flodoald beamed. “When’s the last time you went down to Feltun? Christ almighty, it must have been years ago.” Censwith didn’t know what “Christ” meant, but the meaning behind the exclamation was clear nonetheless.

“Well, I’m not going anywhere,” Censwith reminded the churl. She twisted her feet absentmindedly. “I’m at Friggmen’s farm, as always, silly!”

Flodoald stopped smiling and paused. Censwith stopped twisting her foot and looked up expectantly. “Yes?”

“Friggmen’s farm?” Flodoald asked, head slightly tilted to the side. “Why are you there?”

“I’m waiting for her to come back! She told me to look after it for a while!” _That came out more defensive than I intended._

“What? Oh, Censwith,” Flodoald’s eyes lowered. Censwith was puzzled by the sight of pity on the merchant’s blotchy face. “Friggmen’s not coming back.“

 _How do you know?_ she asked silently. 

Flodoald didn’t need to be asked, freely elaborating:

“She died a long time ago.”


	2. (ART) Censwith Stares at You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have decided to expand this story to include more art and events from the movie. I hope that you enjoy!
> 
> Also - I know that the specific love-heart symbol depicted in Censwith’s necklace wasn’t used until the Middle Ages. However, I hope that you can excuse this anachronism.


	3. Censwith Eats Dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: animal slaughter, mild depictions of self-harm

The next thing Censwith knew, she was staring up at the overcast sky. Flodoald was leaning over her and holding a cup of mead.

Censwith struggled to remember why she was on the ground. Then, the memory of her most recent conversation came back to her. The truth hit her like an ox trampling over her chest. She laid in a puddle of pain. 

“Hello,” she heard Flodoald say. “You fainted.” 

Censwith squeezed her eyes shut and choked back a sob. Her whole body was shaking with grief. Friggmen was dead. _What do you do when people die? You have funerals, right?_ Censwith shuddered. She didn’t want to think about that. She didn’t want to think about the ululating and the crying and the body and the grave goods…

“Who killed her?” Censwith croaked. She felt hot tears slide down her face.

“What?” Flodoald asked. Something in Censwith snapped. _Stop delaying the inevitable!_ she screamed in her head. _You know! You knew this whole time and you didn’t tell me!_

“Who killed her?” Censwith spat the question again. She rubbed the tears away from her eyes furiously. “I’ll kill them!” she bellowed.

“Oh, C-Censwith, calm down! She wasn’t murdered; she died in childbirth!” The distraught woman felt Flodoald’s hands press against her shoulders. She looked up in disbelief and saw the churl’s countenance twisted like gold into curves of sympathy.

That look of pity, again. Censwith furrowed her brow. She wanted to punch that concerned look right off of the peasant’s face.

_Wait, why do I want to hurt Flodoald? What’s wrong with me?_

Censwith pushed the churl away a little forcefully, though she was trying to be gentle. She wrapped her arms around her chest and drew her legs up. Staring at the ground now, she managed to ask: “What happened? Please, tell me everything.”

Flodoald sat next to the bard, and told her about Friggmen’s life without her. She was told how Friggmen was given an army with which to conquer Murgatroyd, a nearby town - Censwith knew that - and how she fell in love with the town, turning on her own army, creating a new identity, living a whole separate life for years and years, changing and making new friends and living with new people, having a child…

Censwith felt as though she were going to throw up. She held out her hand, signaling to Flodoald that she couldn’t handle any of the hurt anymore. That ox that was trampling on her chest had turned into a herd of cattle.  
_  
All those years of waiting,_ she thought, _they were all for nothing. She wasn’t gonna return._ She breathed in deeply. Her chest felt like it was being pulled down into the dirt, exactly where Friggmen’s ashes undoubtedly were. _What did I do so wrong that she wanted to leave me forever?_ Censwith racked her brain, thinking about what she could have done, any glaring errors in her behavior, yet came up with nothing too egregious as to deserve utter abandonment.

Censwith punched the ground so hard that her knuckles hurt. The cruelty of Friggmen’s actions were as clear as ice. _It isn’t fair! I was barely a woman when she left! Why did she get to fall in love, and have a child, while I wasted my life away in a rotting shack?!_ She punched the ground again. _Even I know that I don’t deserve this! and I was enough of a fool to think that she loved me!_

Suddenly, it was as though a veil had been lifted from over her eyes. Censwith became aware of her surroundings. She remembered where she was: a public forum, not a hidden villa. She just couldn’t stand having the villagers of Feltun looking at her like this: defeated, wrought, unkempt. She took a scared look over her shoulder. To her bleary eyes, the peasants’ faces looked unfocused and glazed over, yet her brain filled in the blanks regardless. _They hate what you’ve become,_ she told herself. _They feel bad for you because you fell for such a stupid lie!_

Censwith ran out of the village. She hated how silent the way back was. All she heard was the distant lowing of cattle and the crunch of her leather boots against the hard ground, letting her thoughts roar in the atrium of her mind like a wild boar let loose in a mead-hall. At some point, she also became aware of the sound of herself crying. It was so pitiful, that she punched herself in the head in a moment of uncontrolled emotion.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the reflection of a muddy puddle. She looked so dirty, and the dark hue of the water didn’t help. Censwith groaned with disgust; she ripped her braids apart, the braids that Friggmen thought were so cute, the ones that she preserved just for her sake. She let her dark red hair hang limply down over her shoulders and glared at the mess staring back at her. _Ugly._

Back at Friggmen’s farm, back where she never left. Back in the mud and rotting wooden floors and the stench of mildew and crusted manure. Back in the thane’s hut, with its molding tapestry. Censwith approached the far end of the hall and craned her neck at the artwork depicting the matriarchs that ruled over her kingdom. Stoic Swein, pragmatic Hildgildis, temperamental Wodalaug, and the wonderful Friggmen, all beaming down at her with their smiles sewn onto their faces, all mocking her for being so naïve. Censwith punched herself in the head again.

“Well, by Wodan’s beard!” she howled so hard her throat rattled, pointing a harsh finger at her dear friend’s embroidered image. “Aren’t you just a _beacon_ of human kindness!? Aren’t you just a _vavasour_ of the gods!? Ha ha ha, ha ha ha, ha ha _aaarrgghh!”_

With that, she grabbed fistfuls of the fabric and pulled it off of the wall in one fierce motion. She stood over the soft mound, halfway between panting and sobbing. A heaving cackle crept out of her throat as a wicked thought took root in her mind. She dragged the heap onto the hard ground outside the hut's door.

Censwith lit a candle. She lit several. She lit all the candles she had left. She carefully draped their warm flames over the stinking cloth. It took a while for anything satisfactory to happen, but Censwith was patient. _After all,_ she thought bitterly, _I apparently have all the time in the world._

Censwith sighed at the sweltering bonfire before her. She watched the threads snap and smolder as the flames licked them into ash.

“This will keep me warm,” she muttered to herself. The sun had since set, not that the overcast sky provided for that much of a beautiful sunset. _Just like my life;_ Censwith frowned, _I wasted most of the day doing nothing. My gods, I’m hungry._

Her mind was drawn to the distant neighing echoing from the stables. Was she above such an antiquated action? _Nah._ Besides, Friggmen had told her that the consumption of horse meat used to be commonplace. All things considered, she may have been lying to her just for the sake of it, though. If there was anyone who wasn’t above hurting the creatures that they claimed to have held dear, it was Friggmen.

Censwith scrambled back into the house, her stomach moving her limbs like a puppet. She collected a wonderfully sharp dagger from Friggmen’s fine, crumbling toolshack, which had become more of a home to spiders and rats than to instruments of farming and war over the decades of its disuse.

Censwith ultimately chose to eat the gray mare with the white coat as opposed to the dark stallion standing alone in the corner. She had other plans for him.

She lead the gray mare out into the field, out of sight.

_One less mouth to feed, and one more well-fed._

The slaughter of the horse was quick. Censwith was surprisingly skilled at handling a blade, considering her civilian profession. It seemed as though all of those years developing her dexterity really did have a use outside of harp-playing!

She sectioned the muscle and removed the organs. It did not shock her too much. She had slaughtered animals before. It was the frightfully bright crimson color which stained her fingers that always got to her, anyway. It just seemed unnatural that such a vivid liquid would come out of such a dirty animal.

 _Hey, it’s for survival, what are you gonna do?_ she found herself thinking. _Friggmen woulda understood if she were in my situ - ah, she wouldn’t’ve understood. She’s not even alive to care, anyway._

Censwith ate her dinner. It sat heavy in her stomach. She realized the lack of foresight in using all of her candles to light an outdoors bonfire when her bed was inside a house. _Ah, well._ She washed her hands in some stagnant rainwater and returned to the stables. She signaled her entrance clearly, making sure that the sole stallion sitting inside wouldn’t become frightened.

“If ya try to kick me to death,” she began to warn the horse, “I’ll - eh, I’ll probably deserve it afta what I did to your friend.” She laughed bitterly. “Oh, look at me. Talkin’ to a horse.”

She stroked his weird, long face. His large eyes, like deep pools of water reflecting a moonless sky, blinked back at her.

“What was your name, again?” she murmured. “I don’t remember…”

Censwith sat down in the hay next to the warm stallion. The animal didn’t struggle when she laid her head against its fly-bitten skin.


	4. Censwith Begins Her Journey

Censwith didn’t have much time to plan, or much desire to. She wanted to ride this wave of emotion till its end. Wherever it brought her when it lost its power was a problem for future-her. It energized her; the intensity of the emotions that she was experiencing was so severe that at times she felt the need to punch a wall or even herself.

She did whatever made her grin viciously and her limbs ache. She gathered chainmail, a spare wool tunic and leggings, her harp, a load of fancy maple spears, the dagger she had used to slaughter the mare, and unlit rushlights. Again, what she was planning for was nothing more than a rush-job revenge fantasy. Still, she would be satisfied with whatever outcome resulted in an increase in innocent people’s pain.

Half-way through compiling her materials, Censwith came to the unfortunate realization that she had no idea where Murgatroyd was, in terms of direction, at least. On a similar note, she also didn’t know how long it would take to get there. She needed to pack food, right? And water… Censwith groaned in frustration. The deep, tugging pain in her chest that she had been trying to ignore weighed heavier, threatening to overwhelm her thoughts. It burned in her throat. She knew that once she started to cry, she would be incapacitated until it was over. She didn’t want to acknowledge the pain; it hurt too much. Despite her hesitance, Censwith let herself fall to her knees next to Friggmen’s tool shack, and she let herself cry.

She just wanted to get through the movements: her diaphragm moving erratically, sniffing rhinorhhea back into her nose, her facial muscles hurting from the wheezing, squinting tears from her eyes, yada yada yada. _Gods, being sad was tiring! I don’t have all day to wallow in sorrow, you know!_ She shook her fist at the blue-white sky, yelling internally at any spirits who were watching her. _I have a buncha people to kill!_

Her brow furrowed with resolve.

_Time to get back to work._

Censwith shuffled on her knees towards the toolshack. She wiped the wet from her eyes and stood up. Not wanting to get spiderwebs in her hair, she groped around the shack with her face turned away. She found a throwing axe, which was heavy. _I can’t carry this all the way!_ she internally groaned. _I need a mule or something to help me. Oh, wait, I ate the last one three winters ago!_

 _It didn’t even taste good, anyway._ Censwith let the axe fall to the ground with a hearty thud. She reached inside the shack and her fingers touched something sharp. Censwith stretched her arm further into the shack, her fingers gingerly poking around, looking for a handle. She felt a spiderweb hit her cheek and grimaced. She pulled her hand away and felt her fingertips tug on something. Whatever it was, it clunked onto the ground as she withdrew her arm. Censwith crouched down to inspect the object, pushing the fallen throwing axe away.

What had fallen was nothing more than farming equipment. It was a scythe, a rusty one, with two grips and a curved metal blade encrusted in dried mud. The only thing it could reliably yield by now was lockjaw. The sorry state of the tool somehow made Censwith start crying/laughing again. Was this all she had for her revenge? some spears and chainmail?

 _No,_ she reminded herself, _I have those rushlights._

She sat still, staring at the sod, formulating a heap of thoughts that could somewhat be a plan. Truth be told, she did not need to bring food. She could drink from whatever streams she came across, anyway. She could steal some grain and spear some birds along the way. She just wanted to find this Murgatroyd, and destroy it. She didn’t care what happened next: in fact, she had subconsciously assumed that she would die immediately after her revenge, anyway, so the consequences of her actions did not matter.

She trotted past the stinking carcass of the mare she had slaughtered, sending some crows aflight in a flutter of black feathers, and got ready for her departure.

Her bag was packed. Her stallion was ready. _What should I call this fine specimen?_ she wondered. She pressed her hand gently onto the horse’s side. _How does Attorsceadha sound?_ Attorsceadha breathed calmly in response.

She kind-of remembered how to ride a horse. These fancy stallions practically drive themselves anyway, she huffed. Her darling Friggmen has only the best supplies. Too bad they had degraded under her loyal friend's disuse.

Riding Attorsceadha towards Feltun’s forum, she caught a glimpse of herself in the same muddy puddle as last time. She looked like a rogue, with her chainmail (a little too big for her), her hair messy and down, and a harrowing look in her eyes. Her face was smeared with filth, and her fingers were still stained from the previous evening’s dinner. _Ew_.

The town had some people milling about. Censwith bitterly recalled that not one of the villagers had checked up on her after her emotional outburst the day before. It felt like someone twisting a knife between her ribs. She steered Attorsceadha to the country roads (well, they weren’t really roads as they were more like paths of dirt where grass refused to grow) and saw Flodoald running towards her from across the field. Censwith made her stallion stop; she felt a foolish sense of hope that Flodoald was going to care about her wrecked emotions.

“You’re leaving?” Flodoald called. 

“Yep.” Censwith found herself being short with the peasant.

“Oh… forever?”

Censwith gripped the horse’s mane tightly.

“What do you think?! No, I’ll be right back!” she jeered. Flodoald stepped back, looking unsure, then met her eye.

“You’re not even going to sell you livestock or anything?”

“No,” Censwith rolled her eyes. “I ate all of it. Hey, do you know where Murgatroyd is? I’m dying to pay Friggmen’s kid a visit.”

Flodoald pointed in the opposite direction where Censwith was headed. “I heard it’s down about that way, past Emnsarstoke. It’s a small coastal town. If you see the old Freya temple, then you’ll know you’re there.”

“Thanks.” Censwith turned her horse around.

“May God bless your journey!” Flodoald called from behind her.

_What kind words, and for such a wretched woman. Please save your breath, Flodoald._

Censwith reached Emnarstoke by the time the sun had begun to set behind the trees. While armed, Censwith did not consider herself to be in any way proficient in hand-to-hand combat, so she searched for a safe place to spend the night, away from wolves and thieves. In addition, she was extremely hungry. A widow by the name of Eadgyth, kindly offered to extend her hospitality to the wanderer for the night, in return for help with making dinner. Censwith gladly accepted the offer. 

_Small price to pay for bedding and food,_ she thought as she watched the broth in the widow’s iron pot boil.

Over their tasteless vegetable soup, Censwith and Eadgyth discussed the topic of Friggmen’s offspring.

“I’m going to Murgatroyd to see thane Friggmen’s child,” Censwith mumbled, and gnawed at her bread. It was hard as stone.

“Oh, you mean Stephan of Murgatroyd?” Eadgyth asked a little sheepishly.

Censwith glared upwards at her host. “Is that their name? Sounds foreign.”

“Well, they say that his father’s a Christian, but almost everyone on this side of the forest is.”

Censwith smirked. “That’s an odd fella to marry for a blueblood like Friggmen.”

“I heard that they weren’t married.” Eadgyth stared at her dirty fingernails. 

Censwith leaned forward. “Oh? A bastard, then?

“W-well, it’s all just gossip.”

“Hmm.” Censwith considered her soup. “How old’s this boy, then?” she asked. She imagined a little infant, squealing for his mother who wasn’t there. Then she thought about the length of Friggmen’s absence, and realized that she had no worldly idea what age this “Stephan” could be.

“Oh, he’s only fourteen.”

Censwith gripped her bread so hard that she thought the jagged crust would tear her skin.

_Fourteen! Fourteen! She sure started her new life without me quick, didn’t she?_

“Are you okay…?”

Censwith straightened her back slowly, a forced smile on her face. 

“Oh, I’m fine!” she grinned. “Haha, it’s just, he’s nearly a man now, isn’t he? Hahaha!”

Eadgyth laughed unsuredly. “Ha ha, yeah, not even a man and he already stopped a war.”

Censwith stopped laughing. “A war? What war? Actually, never mind.” She waved her hand. “I’m just here to see the young lad.”

“Did you know Friggmen?” Eadgyth asked quietly. Censwith squeezed her bread tighter. She forced herself to breathe.

“Yes. I used to be her best friend.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry.”

They didn’t talk for the rest of the dinner.

Censwith slept with Attorsceadha in the corner of the one-room shack. It was hard to fall asleep due to the stench and sounds of animals. She kept replaying her conversation with Eadgyth and Flodoald over and over in her head. She couldn’t sleep soundly with such irritation and hurt building up inside of her. She did not cry, though. She didn’t want Eadgyth to hear her sobbing.

The lack of sleep did provide an opportunity for Censwith to sneak out of the widow’s house before even the rooster woke up. She looked out the window into the indigo sky, which was getting more and more blue. She gently pushed the sleeping sows out of her way and guided loyal Attorsceadha to the door. She fitted him with her belongings and leapt nimbly up onto his back.

Her head was empty as she neared Murgatroyd. Well, that was a lie. It was pretty cluttered with thoughts of betrayal, guilt, rage, and fear; she did not want to spend precious energy worrying about what would happen after she enacted her revenge. She was tired, and she was angry. She just wanted to cause harm, and curse the consequences.

She reached a crossroads. In the upper right corner, a pasture lay out before her. There was a sign tied to the wooden fence which bordered it that said “Hám Stephanes”.

_What a great coincidence. I bet Stephan is extremely close by, eh?_

Censwith pulled up to the field and (somehow) managed to light one of her rushlights. She threw it onto the field before the flames could reach her hand. She stared at where it had fallen, waiting patiently to see if the fire would cause any damage. She hoped that the field wasn’t still too wet from the rain two days ago.

The fire managed to survive, though, and it got some of the stalks around it burning as well. Censwith grinned and rubbed her gloved hands together.

“Oh, this is perfect!” she whispered to herself. She threw some more rushlights onto the fire and watched eagerly as the tallow-soaked sticks began to burn.

Censwith whooped triumphantly. She did not know if such a fire would cause any significant damage. In her head, she imagined the whole field ablaze. _Whatever!_ she yelled internally. _It’s time to meet Stephan._

With that, Censwith leapt back onto Attorsceadha and drove him galloping in the direction she assumed Stephan’s dwelling to be.


	5. Censwith Causes Blunt Force Trauma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for mild depictions of violence, and mild blood.

The four humans standing before her looked pretty confused by her presence.

As she galloped towards the hut, she saw the figures working outside, then rushing inside, then returning to the front of the house. By the time she arrived, there was a short light-skinned adolescent with dark curly hair, a very pale and slender ginger woman with very short hair (oh, she definitely recognized her), a short olive-skinned girl(?) with long brown hair, and a tall dark-skinned woman with dark black hair.

Censwith stumbled to a stop. She stared with wide eyes at the clearly apprehensive people, who stared back. She pointed accusingly at the young male with short, curly hair.

“Are you Stephan of Murgatroyd?” she yelled from her high vantage point on horseback.

“Y-yeah,” the young man smiled. Censwith felt her body twist.

“Hahaha, perfect!” She scrutinized his party. “Well, well, well! Let’s assess the livestock, shall we?”

She glared at the tall woman. “You must be Leofgyth!” The short girl was her next point of scrutiny. “You must be Cynethryth!” She turned to the ginger. She had already recognized her, but for the point of dramatics, she had saved her for last.

“And–“ the bard gasped with mock shock. “Thane Friggmen’s thrall!” Her surprised expression morphed into a wicked smile, her eyes straining with barely-contained rage. “Glad to know _you_ were good enough to keep!”

The ginger slowly backed away. _So she recognizes me, too. Of course she does._

“It… can’t be…” Eadhild whispered.

“Oh! but I am right here, aren’t I?” the scop’s eyes shifted to the young man. “I’ve chosen a new profession over singing, young Stephan. I mean, I know that warriors and bards are held to the same regard here, but I wasn’t satisfied with just recounting battles, ya know?!”

She reached into the bag draped behind her and searched for the soft curved of her harp. She withdrew it from her bag and stood on two feet on Attorsceadha’s back. She cartwheeled her arms exaggeratedly, then balanced herself, perched on the horse. She begun to strum her harp rhythmically.

“Don’t worry,” she hissed. “I’ll give you one last song!

_Alone in the empty mead-hall  
A bard has sat for a score all  
Waiting for her best friend to call  
Apparently she’d made a brawl  
Running off with only her thrall  
But now is friends with all of y’all  
Except for me, who’s most distal  
Who’d not even put down her pall  
Celebrate fine, before the fall  
When Censwith comes, and kills you all!”_

“Wwww-wait!” Stephan yelled. He held out his arms openly. There was a sickeningly hopeful look on his face. “In case you haven’t heard,” he continued, “I’ve established peace throughout the kingdom-“

“Yeah, I heard!” Censwith cut him off. “Apparently I’m out of the business, because all everyone can ever do is sing your praise!” She hurled her wooden harp at the boy’s direction. It hit his chest, knocking the wind out of him, and causing him to stumble backwards over his feet and onto the ground. His loving friends rushed to his side.

“I just loooove that song,” she sang through clenched teeth, inching her fingers back into her bag, “where dear Friggmen spends the rest of her days on this worthless! farm plot,” her fingers curled around a wooden grip, “with a buncha. Worthless. Lowborns.”

She whipped out whatever it was that she had grasped: the rusty iron scythe. Disappointing, but she couldn’t just go sifting through her armaments now. She had already made such a theatrical entrance. Censwith glanced around her audience and imagined them writhing with tetanus. The thought made her shiver.

“I-I’ll get my shield!” Stephan got up and yelled before scampering into the house.

“Yaaaahh!” Censwith leapt from her horse, only to have a spear shoved in front of her face. She deftfully dodged away from Eadhild’s attack, before running forwards to aim at Cynethryth’s small head. The young woman reeled around to attack Censwith, a bullwhip in her hand, but the bard ducked and kicked her over, sending the short woman tumbling into her ginger friend. Next up was Leofgyth, the tall woman armed with nothing but her thick leather gloves. She sent a vicious punch Censwith’s way. Censwith danced out of her reach, grinning all the while as she watched the three humans struggle to orient themselves. She threw her scythe onto the roof of the house behind her and scrambled onto its surface.

“Gahahahahahaha!” she cackled. This was just like when she and Friggmen used to play tag, except that this game was hopefully lethal. She jumped up and down.

“You can’t catch me!”

“Get down from there!” Leofgyth ordered furiously.

“No!”

Cynethryth cracked her knuckles. “I’ll get her,” she growled, and approached the building. Eadhild grabbed her hood.

“Cynethryth, wait!” she yelped.

_These were the fools Friggmen abandoned me for?_

“I’m back!” Stephan panted, running into view. He held a highly decorated, yet obviously functional, orbicular shield in his hand.

“It really is her… I can’t believe it…” she heard Eadhild mutter. Stephan leaned towards the ginger.

“Do you know her?” he asked. “Can you tell us who she is?”

Oh, that made Censwith furious.

“Who am I? _Who am I?!_ “ she screamed. “I am your personal psychopomp!” She twirled her scythe in her hands like a baton, much to the horror of her audience. “Now, prepare to join your ancestors!” She grabbed both grips of the scythe and jumped down from the roof, sending her to-be victims scattering.

The heel of her scythe connected with Cynethryth’s skull. The woman crumpled to the ground.

Leofgyth threw a punch in Censwith’s direction. Censwith ducked away and swung with full force towards the imposing warrior. The heel of her scythe smashed against the woman’s temple. Leofgyth stumbled, but didn’t fall. Censwith barreled into her torso, forcing her onto the ground, and slammed the heel of the scythe against her head again. This time, Leofgyth didn’t move.

She felt something collide with her back. Fortunately, the chainmail that she was wearing deflected the projectile. Censwith pulled her chainmail hood over her head and turned around. Eadhild had thrown a spear, and was reaching for the maple ones that Censwith had brought with her. Censwith felt filled with rage and fear, despite the chainmail. She knew, though, that this little spear-carrier wasn’t wearing any.

Censwith sliced at the woman. The cut was unfortunately rather superficial. Damage was done, though. The cut reached from below her clavicle to her belly button. Eadhild’s tunic was turning red.

She gasped in pain. “Augh! What the—?”

“Eadhild! Get out of here!” The woman fled at the sound of Stephan’s voice.

Censwith spun her scythe around idly. Stephan was facing her, shield in hand. That hopeful look on his face had vanished; it had been replaced with a look of hurt and fear.

“Why are you doing this?” he cried. His arms were held open in a pleading gesture. It was now or never.

Censwith struck the boy quickly. He dropped his shield with a yelp, blood dripping from his palm. His tunic was torn, but instead of flesh, there was chainmail underneath.

“Chainmail?” Censwith giggled condescendingly. “I figured as much.” She swung again, but much to her surprise, Stephan grabbed the snath of her scythe.

“What’s the matter, Stephan?” Censwith spat, struggling to take the scythe from out of his hands. She shoved her face closer to the boy. “Are you afraid of a civilian bard?” Stephan’s face twisted into a look of fury.

“No!” he howled. He wrenched the snath from her hands. “Enough is _enough_!”

He swung the scythe at her, and Censwith was unconscious before she even hit the ground.


	6. (ART) Censwith Rests

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No text, but a drawing.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Have a nice day. :-)


End file.
